Sorry about the infrequency of posts, but I’ve been on vacation. A mini vacation. But a vacation none the less. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.
A few years ago my friend talked me into going on an Applebee’s date with a friend of a friend of a friend. When the degree of friendship is that far off, you really shouldn’t even call them a friend. Now, we called these dates Applebee’s dates because it was a small town, and the nicest place to go at the time for a date was the Applebee’s since it was the only sit-down chain restaurant in a sea of drive-thrus and mexican joints.
I talked to the guy online a few times before meeting him at the Applebee’s because I was hoping to find some common ground or get an idea of what we could talk about between bites of skillet sizzlers.
To my recollection, the guy never actually came out and said he was a cop, but he had a cop uniform, a plain car, and a fetish for handcuffs. So he was either a cop who was into some kinky stuff or a nutter who thinks he’s a cop. Or an actual cop.
When he wasn’t saving the city from criminals or handcuffing willing participants to his bedpost, he was in…wait for it… a gospel a Capella quartet. Ironic isn’t it?
He sent me link after link of his group on tour in dimly lit churches with poor sound quality. I finally just got offline and then text messaged him to tell him my internet disconnected. Which, to be honest, is true 50% of the time.
The next day was the date. Looking back my skirt was probably suggestively short and my top too low cut. I’m sure I looked a right slut sometimes. I don’t know why none of my friends ever told me. My guy friends would tell me it’s my inner tease, but I swear I thought the clothes covered more skin at the time.
It was my first time being out with an older guy. This was before I’d met my ex who was 9 years my senior.
He was awkward. And tall. Very tall. And every time he looked at me I felt like he was imagining me handcuffed to his bed. And yet, somehow, through all the sneaky (so he thought) glances directed towards my chest and the clear lust in his eyes, he managed to talk about his gospel group.
I knew in the first five minutes that this was going to be one of those water dates. You know where you just order a water and then come up with some really good reason to leave or go to the bathroom and then come back to your seat only to get a carefully orchestrated phone call five minutes later. Then you can leave without feeling guilty that the guy had to pay for your food.
Well he wasn’t having that. He ordered food for me. I’m a very picky eater, and I special order the crap out of everything. I also always instruct that there be no creepy green stuff adorning my food whether it’s parsley or chives. I once had an argument with a waitress about parsley. I said “no parsley” because I didn’t want to be laughed at for saying “no creepy green stuff.” She said they didn’t put parsley on anything. But they did have some green leafy stuff they sprinkled on. I informed her that his leafy abomination was parsley. But she insisted it was not. My food arrived with parsley all over it. Lesson learned.
But back to the point. When a guy orders you food, but you plan on ditching him, you just take the extra effort to sit there ten more minutes, pick at your food, and then have it boxed up so you can make a clean getaway and the food doesn’t go to waste. This is called the carry-out date.
He walked me to my car as I was trying to escape. I guess because he was trying to be a gentleman. And I suppose I might have softened and changed my mind if I’d gotten to know him better, but all I really wanted to do was leave. Sometimes you’re just not interested for whatever reason, and it’s best to make a clean break. Or the guy brings up how he’d like to take you home and let you try on his handcuffs. My reply was to simply get in my car and drive away.
I have no idea where this guy is now or what he’s doing. But I like to imagine he’s still singing gospel and hiding his dirty little mind away where no one will see.
I’m one of those people that strangers love to talk to. There could be a dozen people in a store and somehow I’m the one with the blazing sign over my head that says “Ask me for assistance.” Honestly, I don’t even mind that much. Sometimes I live for that moment when someone asks me if something comes in a different color, just before seeing the handbag nestled under my arm, the ultimate symbol of anti-sales assistance. I don’t mind telling a woman she looks better in the pink raincoat or that their daughter should go a half-size down in the shoes she’s trying on because they stretch a lot.
I’ve even taken friends shopping before. I’ve taken guys shopping. So I’m used to the way they think. Some I’ve been successful with, others were pretentious backstabbers who weren’t worth the Adidas they waltzed in with. Either way, it’s quite fun to help other people spend their money and make them look fantastic at the same time.
I was minding my own business in the lingerie section of a JCP (Yes, I look at lingerie a lot.), when a man approached me. He was raking his eyes over my body in the trashy romance novel kind of way, as I thumbed through decidedly unsexy cotton lounge separates.
“You remind me of my wife,” he finally contributes after our awkward staring session.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Was it a good thing or a bad thing I reminded him of his wife? Even more important, is she living or deceased? So many questions stem from one little statement. My body decided a nervous giggle was the most appropriate answer.
“Would you mind trying one of these on for me?” He asked.
I’m sure my eyebrows hit the ceiling in response. No I did not want to put on a negligee fashion show for a complete stranger even if he did happen to be a little handsome. And I’m sure his wife is absolutely gorgeous. And I look nothing like her. And he was just being nice.
He held out a trashy pink satin robe. I say trashy because that’s how it would look on moi. I’m sure there are some souls out there who could pull it off with panache. I was a nanosecond away from turning him down and going on some tirade about how he shouldn’t ask random women to try on sexy things for him. Really. I was. But then the single crazies kicked in. At least that’s what I call it when a sane, logical girl does really strange and crazy things because she’s single and suddenly takes an “oh hell why not” approach to life.
So I tried on the silly thing, and I felt like a tart until he started asking legitimate shopping questions about the fit and the feel of it. In the least sexual way possible we examined every inch (not many) of the garment. I even began to feel bad for judging this poor sweet man who just wanted to surprise his loving wife with a little gift. She probably bakes for him and kisses him before he leaves for work every day. And he probably adores her and buys her flowers for no reason and makes sure the oil is changed in her happy yellow economy car.
Then he asks if I like the robe. I’m a terrible liar. Generally you can take one look at my face and see exactly how I feel about something.
He laughs at my internal struggle to tell a little white lie about how much I like the garish robe. “That’s a no.” He says.
I catch sight of his wedding band as he helps me out of the robe. I briefly go back to daydreaming about his perfect marriage.
He hands me a folded piece of paper. “I think you dropped this,” he said. It was a simple unobtrusive paper. Probably a coupon I printed off somewhere. He thanked me and walked off as I opened the paper to see what discount I was missing at one of my favorite stores.
The paper was blank. Blank except for a string of numbers and a name. I threw it in the nearest trash bin. Maybe he saw me do it and ran home to his wife.
This is exactly what you think it is. Craigslist brought this little jewel into my life. As I spent day after day when I was unemployed scanning the job listings, I was drawn to the personals. Not for the raunchy come meet me in my truck and let me rock your downstairs posts. Not for the lovesick men pouring their heart out about their past relationships while looking for a new one. No, I meander to the left side of the page for the missed connections.
Sometimes the stories are rather vague, and I wonder if I were to try to pretend to be the girl they were looking for if I could get away with it. Gee I know you liked that blonde in the red shirt, but hey look at me, I’m nice too.
Honestly, who secretly (or not so secretly) doesn’t want to be the one person someone is looking for? To be chosen out of billions of people because you happened to be wearing a particularly eye-catching outfit or happened to be at this one particular coffee shop at this one particular time so this one particular person would see you?
Oh yes, I’ve been teased before by the posts. Places I happened to be in the same time as the person who was the real missed connection. In some instances, standing next to the target of the hunter’s affections.
Someday, I’m going to be someone’s missed connection and have my Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks moment. And it will blow my mind, like the time I found out I had been peeling bananas incorrectly my whole life and eating them upside down. (And still do. The primates be damned!) And the story will be so crazy and wonderful that Sophie Blackall will drop what she’s doing to illustrate it.
Until then, I will be out and about in urban areas as often as possible, smiling a little too wide or keeping prolonged eye contact with any cuties I meet.
Side note: I find that my dreams often rely heavily on others’ involvement. Does this make me too dependent on others, or too confident in my ability to persuade others to bend to my will? Food for thought…
Nothing brings reality crashing down on you like swimsuit season. There’s just something motivating and prophetic about seeing yourself in the first swimsuit you try on, with winter pudge in all the wrong places and the harsh contrast of the suit against your pasty skin. I haven’t bought a swimsuit in years. The last time I bought one, I was probably in middle school and the tankini was the new “it” thing that people hadn’t really heard of. My mom is the modesty police when it comes to cleavage and hemlines. So I was the middle schooler with the layered tops and boy short bottoms, thus showing the minimum amount of skin without donning a wetsuit.
So as I was struggling with the less fabulous reflection of my fabulous self in the mirror, I found myself reflecting on a particular poolside memory.
My friends and I had a particular fancy to soak in a hot tub. I didn’t have a swimsuit. I don’t swim. I have no need for one. During the brief period when my dermatologist prescribed that I spend time in a tanning bed, I did it naked and for a minimal amount of time. And couldn’t relax because I kept thinking about all the awful cancerous things that were probably happening to my body. So I finally just agreed to go with them and stick my feet in.
We didn’t have a hot tub. And none of us lived in a complex with a hot tub. So we drove around looking for an apartment complex with a hot tub where there was no lock on the gate or where someone would just let us in.
We sat for a bit and talked about anything and everything. Then they went into the pool house to change out of their wet things while I sat out alone in the chilly evening air.
I was startled out of my inner contemplation by a manly voice. “You know it would be warmer if you were actually in the water.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.” I grinned awkwardly as if this was all that could be said on the subject and we should just go back to being silent as church mice.
He was the jock type that I tend to shy away from because despite being beautiful, they get on my nerves.
“Well, I have a solution for that,” he said with a cocky grin.
I hoped he was not going where I thought he was going with it. My inner thoughts were screaming at him not to be a cliche. “You’re a swimsuit salesman?” I asked. Because I’m a smart ass.
He laughed. “No. I just meant. Well it’s just you and me, so maybe you’d want to have a little hot tub party…naked?”
I’m beginning to think I have some sort of invisible sign attached to me that says it’s ok for guys to ask me to take my clothes off. I’m constantly appalled by the number of times I’ve been asked to get naked or have been faced with male nudity in full arousal mode. At least that guy kept his trunk in his trunks.
“Um…no thanks,” I said, shrugging it off.
“Well why not?” He arched his eyebrow in a decidedly sexy manner.
I could feel the steam and the chlorine seeping into my lungs and was highly aware of the chemical sting on my eyes. The humidity seemed to be creeping in where the night was once chilly. And my friends. Where the hell were my friends?!
“I’m here with my friends. They’re just changing. They’ll be out any minute.” Ha. I made it sound like I would have gladly shed my threads for visit his hot tub party. As if.
“My friends are talking to them inside. I asked them to…distract them for a few minutes.”
OMG. I’d been targeted. My eyes widened in panic and alarm. Also, a few minutes? Sad. “Mm. That’s interesting. And I’m sure you went to a lot of trouble, but it’s my special lady time.” White lie.
“Ha! Your what?!” By this time he had completed his slow migration across the hot tub and was standing in what was becoming an uncomfortably close proximity. I felt his hand (at least I hope it was his hand) accidentally-on-purpose brush against my leg underwater.
“I’m on my period.” I’m waiting for my scare tactic to sink in.
“Ah. Well a real man doesn’t mind bloodying his sword every now and then.”
…..Really? I mean come on!
His expression was one of pure victory. He oozed arrogance and egotistic pig.
So I said the first thing I could think of to ward off unwanted men. “I don’t think Excalibur wants my STDs.”
His roaming hand snapped back. A range of emotions went across his face. Disgust. Incredulity. Uncertainty.
Luckily my friends chose that moment to come back out. I slowly drew my legs out of the water. His friends were coming over too. I heard one of them whispering an apology for not being able to detain my friends.
He stared at me while my friends were gathering their stuff from various patio furniture. He didn’t really believe me about the STDs. But he also didn’t want to believe a girl didn’t want to have hot tub sex with him. I winked at him before turning to walk to the car with my friends, leaving him to wonder.
No I’m not going to load you up with facts and figures about the possibility of traveling back in time. And I am very aware that my past is in my past. But I have the kind of job that leaves a lot of leeway for my brain to ponder things that I probably shouldn’t think about but they come creeping in anyway. And then I make up songs in my head about them which means every guy will rue the day they met me when I learn to play a guitar.
I collect perfumes. It’s not something I intentionally set out to do. But over time, when I realized I had fifty eleven of them, I decided that it would be more acceptable to society as I passed it off as a collection rather than an obsession. I sometimes find myself reaching for the same scent day after day. So that scent becomes associated with certain events in my life.
In 2005 my signature scent was Clinique Happy Heart. Which is kind of ironic because at that point in time, my heart was happy. I’d had exactly two heart breaks. (If you count when I was four and he broke up with me because I wouldn’t watch Looney Tunes.) I was in my junior year of high school weighing college and career options, with a bright future ahead. And to top it off, one very key thing happened. It was the impetus that began a whole maze of craziness that I still endure to this day. A senior asked me to prom. Cliche right?
I never thought about guys taking interest in me much. The guys at my school either went for band geeks or cookie cutter southern belles with no place for us middle ground girls. I little artsy, a little nerdy, a little hipster. The ability to mingle between cliques because I didn’t really belong in any category. There were few like me. So you can imagine I was floored by this question. I looked around to make sure the inquiry wasn’t meant for some other girl standing next to me. When I realized he meant me, I said “I guess so.” I’m so romantic. And thus began the roller coaster ride.
I turned him down as a boyfriend. Mostly because I was busy with school and thinking ahead to college and the different directions we were going. I’m logical and long term when it comes to relationships. Well he went and got another girlfriend whilst we continued our flirtatious friendship.
Then I met my game changer. He was the only serious relationship I ever had. And he lived across an ocean. Things seemed to be going well. We rarely saw each other, but by then I was in college and looking at options for finishing school in the UK so that I could be with him. We got along well when he came to the states to visit, but my last trip to the UK went a bit awry. At first it was just the tiny digs like making fun of my limp when I hurt my leg or scolding me for eating my “chips” with my fingers. But somehow all the good things were outweighing the bad. And the way he kissed sent tingles down my spine (and other places). I’d never been kissed like that before. Then he got drunk to the point of alcohol poisoning , threw up on a train, got kicked off the train by security, and hauled into an ambulance while the coppers flirted with me. This stuff doesn’t happen to other people when they go to visit their boyfriends. It was the dawning of my last day in England. He’d lost my camera with all my pictures from the entire trip.
And sure I was angry and hurt, but that blew over within a few days. Then I just missed him. I played the bitter card with other people and tried to laugh it off. But inside I was gutted. But most of all I was terrified that I could still love someone who pissed me off so much. That no matter what he did, the anger subsided and was replaced by the dull ache of longing. I didn’t know how to tell him. And I had school to focus on. So I asked if we could take a break. Just so I could think things through.
The reader’s digest version: He replaced me with another girl. As men do. Only it was extra interesting because she had the same name. It’s almost like he placed an ad. (My real name is a lot less common than my pen name.) And now he would rather live in relationship hell with her forever staying stagnant and wishing I were there than break things off with her. And I know the moment he’s free again, I’d go running back despite my adamant statements to the contrary.
Flash over to my roller coaster friend. He broke up with his girlfriend the week of her birthday and valentine’s day, which should have clued me into how much of a dick he can be if he actually gets involved with you. But suddenly, magically, in my series of heartbreaks and bitter dating experiences, was this beacon. My friend who’d been there for all of it. Suddenly I was getting butterflies in my stomach for him. And I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. But I didn’t want to make the first move and fuck everything up. And again I was scared because I’d already been burned once.
The long and short of it is he is also now with another girl instead of me. Because somehow someone he met could make him feel in two weeks what he felt for me for seven years. Then he pretty much kicked me to the curb as a relationship prospect and a friend.
Then I got on anti-depressants. If I ever go back in time, I’m getting them sooner.
So, my note to my 2005 self would say, don’t date flaky Brits who can’t keep it in their trousers long enough to have a meaningful, lasting relationship. And don’t fall for that douche bag friend of yours who seems like a great guy, because honey, it’s just a trick of the light. I would also tell my past self to choose a college in an area where you have more of a chance to network and get the kind of job you want so you can date nice urban hipsters who do things like write music and go to film school. Someone who wants to be with you and only you and not someone else like every guy you’re going to meet unless you take my advice. Because the two worst things that can happen when you’re rejected are A) to be rejected and have it shoved in your face on a daily basis that you can’t have the one person you want to be there for you and B) (and this is the most common for me) be rejected for another woman while the man who rejected you still wants you.
I will never understand B. You don’t spend your time with Payless when someone’s willing to give you Sam Edelman, Manolos, and Jimmy Choos all wrapped into one. (Can I please get a pair of those?)
Long winded, but I thought I’d let everyone know a bit about my relationship history. And possibly where my bitterness towards many of the men I date stems from. It’s through understanding other people that we humans make the biggest breakthroughs.
Back in November I brought you a lovely little series of anecdotes dealing with fetishes. I honestly thought I had covered most of the ones that weren’t already prevalent in society, but I recently found out I was wrong.
I was kind of seeing this guy. By kind of seeing I mean we had a couple of coffee dates and lo and behold I’ve ended up on his couch watching the Evil Dead trilogy. On the downside, I’m sitting stiffly and awkwardly on a couch with a guy I barely know. On the upside, there’s Bruce Campbell.
A couple of cups of coffee in, I realize I have to pee really bad. Even if I don’t have to pee really bad, I often like to say I do just so I can go check out other people’s bathrooms. My mom told me that when I was a kid we couldn’t go anywhere without visiting the throne room, even if I didn’t have to go, just because I was curious. He tells me where to find it and I make my way there.
As I’m relieving my bladder, I notice that the door to the storage cabinet is hanging open a bit. I had every intention of closing it and keeping his privacy private, but there was a burning curiosity in me, and that tiny gap was tempting me. I had to know what lived behind those double doors. I wedged my finger between the crack and pushed the door back with one quick movement before I could change my mind. Maybe I could say the unit came on and blew the door open?
The first glance made the contents in the cabinet appear normal. Towels, medicine, toilet paper, soap and whatnot. But then, on the lower shelf, behind a crate of cleaning supplies was a pack of Pampers.
I have nothing against guys with children. And someone could have diapers in their bathroom cupboard for any number of reasons. Maybe he’s an uncle. Or a part-time manny. And even if the kid’s his, I don’t mind. I’d just like to know so if I ever see the kid I don’t ask them if they’re lost or immediately jump to the conclusion that the guy I’m seeing is a kidnapper from a Lifetime original movie.
As I went back to the living room, I tried to think of a nice subtle way to approach the subject. But what came out of my mouth was, “So you have diapers in your cabinet?”
He looked startled. “Why were you looking in the cabinet?”
Shit. “Um…you were out of toilet paper.” I’m a terrible liar. He’s never going to buy that.
“Oh.” He bought it! He sat there for a moment and then a wave of panic washed over his features. “You didn’t…you didn’t look in the Pampers bag did you?”
“No. Of course not. Why would I look in a bag of diapers?” Oh please. He’s acting like he chopped up a dead body and hid parts of it in a bag of baby diapers. But then it would have reeked in the bathroom.
After not getting the desired response the first time, I pressed on. “So you have a kid?”
“No. Not at all.” Oh. Oh! Maybe he is a manny after all. Maybe if he’s “the one” for me, he’ll know everything there is to know about raising kids, and we’ll be the best parents ever.
“Are you a manny?!”
“What the hell is a manny?”
“A man nanny.”
“No I’m not a…a man nanny. Look can you just drop it?”
Whoa. Hold up. It’s not like I’m asking for his alarm code. I must have looked really sulky and like I was about to leave at any given minute because he released a frustrated sigh and leveled his gaze with mine.
“Look, if I tell you something, do you promise not to judge me?”
Oh no. Oh no no no. I’ve heard this before. It can only lead down paths of no return. I wondered if it was too late to pretend to feel sick and leave. You know before he told me anything awful that would forever change my opinion of him.
He must have taken my silence as agreement because he soldiered forth with his confession, obviously glad to be getting it out in the open. “Well I really like you. And normally I wait til I’ve been with someone longer to tell them this, but…”
“You can wait if you want to. I don’t want to pressure you for information or anything.” What had I just been doing not ten minutes ago? Why, oh, why was I so persistent?
“No I think it would be good to go ahead and tell you now. You know before things progress.” He looked at me for confirmation but continued before I could stop him. “I have this fetish…” Don’t they all? Honestly at this point I could feel my guard relaxing. I’ve heard about so many fetishes that I’m fairly certain nothing would surprise me. Wrong wrong wrong.
He continued, “Well… it’s called a baby fetish.”
Oh sweet Lord Jesus he is a baby fucker. I felt a strange urge to cross myself in prayer, but remembered I wasn’t catholic. Instead, I stared at him, wide eyes full of horror.
“Do you know what that means…?” he looked at me searchingly.
“You’re a baby fucker.” It slipped out. I have no filter. Suddenly I was glad I’d never made out with this man.
“Sort of… it’s role play.” Oh. Oh thank GOD. Not actual babies. “I use the pampers bag to store some of the… necessities. Now that you know about it, if you’d like to try it sometime?”
No. Never. Absolutely not. “Um…I’ll think about it?”
I was suddenly glad for all the less strange fetishes I’d made fun of in the past and glad for the company of Bruce Campbell on the television to keep me from feeling alone in that incredibly awkward moment. Why do these things happen to me? It’s like fate is punishing me for being so fabulous by sending all these strange men into my life.
“You don’t want to see me anymore do you?” You could hear the self-pity and loathing in his voice. And he’s a great guy. He just likes to do strange things in bed, that I’m sure more sexually adventurous women or those in TLC documentaries would appreciate. But it’s not my thing.
“Honestly, you’re a great friend, but…”
“I get it. You think I’m weird.”
“Everyone’s a little weird. But I think we’d only be setting ourselves up to fail if we continued as more than friends, you know?” That and every time we ventured to the bedroom I’d be thinking you’d rather have me in an adult diaper.
He’s still my friend. But now when he dates other women, all I’ll be able to think about is that bag of baby play in his bathroom storage cabinet. And I’ll wonder if he’s asked her to be his baby…
I was going to regale you with an anecdote of one of my dates gone awry, but circumstances close to home have had something much more serious on my mind. There was this guy I was interested in, but it was a long distance thing. It wouldn’t have worked out. He liked another girl. I told him to go for her. I mean it wasn’t like I’d really even gotten to know him. So he made his choice, and I wasn’t it.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t like being someone’s plan B. It’s plan A or nothing. If you want me, you should go for me. If you’re not sure, you should keep your dick in check long enough to make a informed, solid decision you won’t regret. Because even if you come crawling back later, it’s just going to look like I was your backup plan. The girl you’re seeing because the other plan fell through. The pity kiss of all pity kisses is the kiss you receive right after a guy has reverted back to you as a promising solution to his personal life after it’s gone pear-shaped.
So imagine how I feel when this guy not only wants to stay friends, but gets mad at ME for not expressing how much I care for him on a regular basis when he’s with someone else. Well, I don’t go up to anyone else’s boyfriend and express my undying love for them. So why should this be any different? I’m not a mushy gushy touchy feely type anyway. The fact that I’m paying attention to you at all should be a neon sign of my affection. Most people who’ve gotten to know me know I care about them. I don’t have to stay glued to my phone to give them updates to feed their low self esteem. I’ve never stayed glued to my phone because I have a life. (Unless I’m playing Draw Something which is pretty much the best game ever, but I have to wait until I’m near wifi for that so I don’t use all my data drawing really crappy pictures for my friends.)
But the whole situation also makes me wonder if the only reason he’s doing this is not because he actually likes me at all, but because he wants what he can’t have. I’m this geographically unobtainable goddess he’s built up in his head contrasting with the stark reality he’s chosen for himself. Even if that’s not the case, there’s no reason to take the blame out on me. All I did was tell him to do what he wanted. He did. And this is where it ended up. It’s a bit like picking a trail on a hiking map and then calling to yell at me when he ends up lost in a cave.
The best part? He’s having constant gratifying sex with his girlfriend and then telling me how much he loves me and wishes he could talk to me. One night, when I really needed a friend to talk to, I knew I couldn’t call him because he was at his girlfriend’s. Which is fine. I didn’t get mad. I just found someone else to talk to. But when he wants to talk to me and I can’t at that exact moment because I’m neck deep in suds, unwinding after a long stressful day (and talking on the phone in the bathtub is strange and echoes and not private at all) , I’m suddenly the one who doesn’t care about him because I only talk to him when it’s convenient for me. Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.
I’ve allowed him to get under my skin and occupy my thoughts. It’s unhealthy, and he’s not understanding how painful it is for me to hear someone who I can’t be with tell me they love me when they should be saying those words to someone else. The more he pulls this petty bullshit the less I like him. I don’t care who he sleeps with or who he’s with. I just don’t want to be dragged into the middle of it.
This stuff wouldn’t happen if I weren’t so damn amazing. I need an off switch.
If you’re thinking to yourself, gee it sure does take her a lot longer to post, then you’re right. I recently got a new job. It was slated as part time, but somehow I’m working overtime and getting up at 5:30am every day. So needless to say, there’s not a lot of writing time anymore. But don’t worry I’m gonna work it in. After all, nothing is more soothing than the sound of my own fingers gliding over the keys. Actually, I might write a book just so I can hear that sound for as long as I like.
I was reminded today of several episodes in my life and friends’ lives that involved men who like to draw attention to themselves when they think they’re just paying attention to you. It especially happens if you’re a pair or group of nicely dressed girls. The tales about big city construction workers catcalling as you walk past on the sidewalk? Completely true. Or at least in my experience. I have a friend who is a very beautiful sexy woman, and she doesn’t openly flaunt it like a hoochie or anything. She’s very classy. She was walking past a construction worker who zeroed in on her hindquarters in a pencil skirt that hugged her curves and got serenaded with his rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine when She’s Gone.” I can’t listen to the song now without laughing at the fond memory of her appalled expression and sincere pledge to never wear said pencil skirt again.
Another example was when some friends and I attended a conference. We were looking for a drugstore so my friend could buy some nylons to replace her ripped ones. Along the way, we passed a Kinko’s. A boy leaned out the door and yelled, “Ya’ll is some fine ass mothafuckas!” Hm. Thank you? Aside from the foul language and terrible grammar, I suppose that’s a nice thing to say.
Now all the aforementioned scenarios are catcallers. They yell to get your attention, much like a cat in heat. The other group of guys that desperately try to get women are ballers. Those who think they’re badass and can do no wrong, even though they may be completely wrong about that.
This example goes back to what I’ve said in the past about the men from other countries being all over me. I don’t know why. It’s like I have a special pheromone that’s only released once I’ve met someone with a non-American accent. Believe me, I wish it weren’t the case because they’re so temporary.
Anyway, I was at the MET with some friend when a group of all male French tourists happened to be there at the same time. I was innocently standing outside the ladies’ room waiting on my companion since my bladder is always on a different schedule from everyone else, when I noticed the boy who was probably not much more than half my age undressing me with his eyes. He was licking his lips and giving me lewd lascivious looks. What’s more is I suddenly noticed his contemporaries following suit. Then my friends came out of the bathroom and were receiving the same treatment. It was like a visual orgy happening in the MET with no one to document it.
When ballers aren’t being very openly visual, they’re opening their mouths. Sometimes it’s really bad pick-up lines. Like, “I lost my number, can I have yours?” Sometimes it’s an ego. Men can be really full of themselves. Sometimes that’s a good thing, and other times they need to know how to turn it off.
Why can’t a guy just be himself? There’s no need to hide behind shouts and egocentric cheese. Just start a normal conversation like a regular human being. The gentlemen would be surprised where that could lead.
I was in desperate need of panties. Most of mine had holes or weird bits of elastic coming unraveled or they were worn thin so you could practically see through the material. So I went to Vicky’s Not So Secret to get the 5 for $26 panty deal. It’s always such a hassle because there’s always some employee on her headset trying to get all up in my personal space, telling me the drawers are labeled with sizes as if I can’t figure that one out on my own. And then they immediately jump in to straighten the piles even though I promise I’m going to riffle through it again looking for something else.
So there I was contemplating a particularly racy v-string when I noticed the boy next to the panty table staring at me. I knew I could feel eyes on me, but I assumed it was the panty police about to jump in and straighten everything I touched. He was wearing a big jacket and toting a lot of bags. I pretended not to notice the staring and casually drifted away from the panty table. I meandered through the store, pretending to be interested (well, ok actually interested but couldn’t afford) in bras. In one of the bra sections I looked up and there he was. Giving me the “hello” nod. That slight but perceptible nod of pointed recognition.
Again I pretended not to notice. I picked up the nearest bra instead, which happened to be neon lace. And I squeezed the padding in the cup. I always do this with bras. I don’t know if that’s normal. But it’s how I estimate how annoying the amount of padding is. Once I thought the panty table was safe, I wound my way back to the fields of cotton panty splendor and began to dig.
Even though the drawers are labeled with sizes, I’ve worked retail and know there are unspeakably evil teenage customers who purposely don’t put things back where they do. So I searched all the size drawers for a particularly cute pair. Then I heard his voice, “Cate? Cate Reynolds?” I gracefully banged my head on an open drawer as I rose in acknowledgement. Oh no. No no no. It was creepy panty table guy.
The next words out of his mouth were not his name or any indication of telling me who he was. His next words were “I have a girlfriend.” Which, don’t get me wrong, that’s nice and all. But it doesn’t tell me who I’m speaking too. He proceeds to tell me where he works and what he’s been up to lately. All the while I’m trying to hide the confused, uncomfortable expression on my face which is generally an open book no matter what I do.
Finally he must have noted my lack of participation in the conversation because he said “It’s Percy. From high school.” Ooooh. Vague recognition dawned on me. I’d probably seen him in my alma mater’s mauve carpeted corridors half a hundred times. But never had someone from high school observed my lingerie habits for a solid half hour.
I tried to cover my rudeness for not recognizing this poor boy who ultimately remembered not only my first name, but my last name as well, being overly friendly as a form of compensation. “Oh…ha..yeah. I thought you looked familiar. But you know I didn’t want to stare or anything.”
“Well,” he started in his slow southern drawl, “I think it’s ok to stare at people if they know you.”
O…k. Time to skedaddle. “Yeah…you might be right.”
About that time one of the panty police asked Percy if his girlfriend was still in the dressing room. “Yes m’am.” He stood there rather like a little puppy, carrying his girlfriend’s purchases. Or perhaps his purchases for his girlfriend. And I was genuinely happy for Percy. Happy that he was happy and that something was going right for someone amidst all the drama and turmoil that resides in relationships. I just hope he doesn’t see me out in public months from now and think, oh hey she likes the lacy ones.
It doesn’t always necessarily happen in the Spring. But it seems that whenever one old flame comes out of the woodwork, several more follow. The worst of it comes in March. It’s after February so they’ve had their fill of romance or avoidance of said romance. And that hint of Spring is in the air. All the neighborhood cats are preggo and the birds are chirping in the trees. Daffodils are sprouting in random patches. And my inbox is filling up with messages from men I haven’t heard from in a year or longer. Some of them single…some of them very much married. But all of them have the same agenda. Somehow, they just can’t seem to get over me.
Egocentrically speaking, yes, I’m awesome, and it’s extremely hard to drink hot chocolate from a packet when you’ve had decadent European drinking chocolate. But once you’ve left my country, I tend to close my borders. There are a select few allowed visiting and writing privileges. And then there are some I’d like to fine every time they strike up a conversation to see if it would make them go away.
Some of these suitors I’d completely forgotten about to be honest. They were just little blips in my memory. Vague and shadowy figures from my past I never thought would come into my future. I’m just glad so many people lose all their phone contacts pretty regularly, or I would have a whole lot more crap to deal with.
On any given day, I could get a text from someone who lives on the other side of the country who is apparently fantasizing about me and wants to sext me about it. But I can’t attract the attentions of anyone near me. It’s a curse. I can have anyone I want… as long as they are at least 100 miles from me. Actually, it seems the farther away they are, the more they like me. And it can be quite comforting when you’re falling to pieces to know that you have a man in every port. Any puns derived from that sentence were unintentional. But how do you get rid of the married ones and the ones that plague you when you just can’t help being fabulous?
